Tag Archives: forest preserves

At the Harold ”Hal” Tyrell Trailside Museum

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Tiger swallowtail butterfly at Harold “Hal” Tyrell Trailside Museum
Tiger swallowtail butterfly blending in

Last Sunday J. spotted a goldfinch that appeared to be in distress. I looked up animal rehabbers in Cook County and discovered the Hal Tyrell Trailside Museum in Oak Park. Part of the Cook County Forest Preserve District, the museum is no longer in the animal rehab business, but the woman he spoke to told him the goldfinch most likely was a fledgling learning to fly and that he should leave it be.

Located in a house built in 1874, the museum intrigued me, so on Saturday we went to it. It’s a straight shot down Harlem, but it took us more than an hour. Usually, I hate to have so little time to spend at a place (about an hour), but I suspected correctly that the museum is small enough to see in the time we had.

J. parked on a side street nearby, then we checked out the outdoor cages. The museum is home to a number of animals that can’t be released, including a turkey vulture (damaged wing), a red-tailed hawk, an American kestrel, a great horned owl (cataract in one eye), a coyote, and a red fox (imprinted). I could hear the fox before we got to her; she was running in and out of a crate, madly spinning and chasing her tail. When we went inside, I told the people in the office by the door, and a woman came out to look.

She told us about some of the animals and that the fox had been the only surviving kit from a mangy litter. As she approached the cage, the fox rolled over onto her back and cried and whined like a dog or perhaps any canid when a dominant member of the family arrives. At first she seemed okay, but she began to spin again. The woman had told us that yellow jackets sometimes bother her, but when she saw the behavior she seemed concerned and said they would keep an eye on her.

Inside, we found a fish tank on the first floor with carp, bass, walleye, and other Illinois species. In a turtle tank, eyes and a snout were the only parts above the water line. Throughout the museum, posters and exhibit show the visitor how to identify the more common butterflies, some of the vanishing species of wildflowers, and common bird nests. A cross section of a tree trunk and graphics cover local and building history.

On the second floor, cages house a Cuban tree frog (invasive species), a box turtle, an American robin missing part of a wing, and a 20-year-old crow who greeted us with, “Bon soir!” (which I took for “What’s wrong?” — well, that shows my mind’s tendency).

After a while, a visitor came in who attracted the crow’s attention. The visitor talked to her, and the crow crouched and stuck her bill through the cage for petting (which made me wonder how the crow experiences that sensation). When she could reach them, the woman also stroked the feathers around her nares. She told us that she is a frequent visitor and loves the crow, although the bird wasn’t nearly as keen on the little child with her. She also pointed out a cage with a sign, “Black rat snake coming soon” and told us that, a few months ago, someone had broken into the museum when it was closed and stolen the herps, including snakes and frogs.

A second woman from the museum told us the crow’s age and that she had always been in a too-small cage, but that she’s resisted attempts to move her to larger accommodations. She has bumblefoot and arthritis. I’m not sure about her entire vocal repertoire, but it includes “Hello!” in addition to “Bon soir!” Corvids are highly intelligent, and, deprived of the company of her peers, this one probably appreciates familiar humans. The robin, on the other hand, was agitated at first but settled down at last and even began pecking rather peevishly (or nervously) at what was left of its food.

Enchanted by the talking crow, J. decided to try to get video of her speaking. She had burst out several times while we watched her, but the moment he pulled out his camera and set it to video, she clammed up — just like a child. Part of her stubborn silence may have been because the crow whisperer had left.

After noting that the third floor is closed off and mysteriously labeled a “private residence” (I imagined ghosts), I left J. with his new friend so I could use the ladies’ room. Next to the stairs are photos and explanations about baby and juvenile animals, which suggest that they be left alone. Pinkie squirrels can be returned to the base of the nearest tree, where the mother can retrieve them, and helpless robins returned to the nest if possible. Otherwise, what appear to be baby animals should be left untouched; they have not been abandoned and may even be in the transition phase from parental care to independence. I had asked the first woman if they’d gotten out of animal rehab for space reason or for philosophical ones. She said it was mostly the latter; people would bring in young animals of common species that should have been left alone (like the goldfinch fledgling). The second woman told us that 80 percent or more of animals brought to such places had been ripped from their homes by well-meaning, concerned people who didn’t know that they weren’t orphans.

I asked about places to walk, so she gave me a Cook County Forest Preserve District map and sketched roughly where the trails are, describing where they lead.

I waited outside for J. and checked out the wildflower and butterfly garden. Two tiger swallowtails were engaged in an epic battle or courtship — it’s hard to tell in animals or people — while a brilliant male goldfinch flitted among the lower branches of the trees.

We followed the left-hand path and walked through the woods along the Des Plaines River for perhaps three quarters of a mile, then came out and walked back along the street. J. is not used to the woods, and the mosquitoes bothered his inner city slicker. I was bitten several times on the legs, arms, and face, but I was more bothered by sudden bursts of sunlight in my eyes (we were westbound three hours before sundown) and by the little insects that managed to fly up my nose.

I’m not native to Chicago and don’t drive, so the map revealed to me that the forest preserves follow the Des Plaines River and Salt Creek. This explains what I had observed — a number of parks along Harlem Avenue and the lack of cross streets. Now I have seen the Des Plaines River, which is believed to be the travel route of the coyotes that find themselves in places like a Chicago Quiznos. The Des Plaines River connects with the Illinois River, which flows into the Mississippi River, so it is part of an extensive pre-Columbian trade route. In nearly 30 years (gulp!), I’ve found it difficult to warm up to either Chicago or Illinois, but this waterway’s history sounds worth exploration.

After more conversation than I care to go into, we found ourselves at Los Cazadores in Oak Park. I know we’ve been there before because I recognized the colorful paintings of Indian warriors with what appear to be dead, yet nipply maidens. I bet there’s a wonderful story behind them.

On the way to the Flamingo, we stopped at Treasure Island so I could pick up cat litter. First, however, I took J. through the produce section so I could find a cantaloupe that would prove to me that Ignatius (official dimensions: 11.7 cm by 16.2 cm by 13.9 cm) is more substantial than I realize and therefore must be dealt with. I needed the 3D visual, which impressed me and J. August 18: Farewell to Ignatius.

Swallow Cliff Woods and Lake Katherine

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J. called me unexpectedly Saturday with an idea. Last year we’d talked about being more active on our outings, and he’d found something outdoors that interested him — he’d seen an announcement that the toboggan run at Swallow Cliff Woods is to be torn down. Although he never used it, he remembers the run from his childhood and wanted to see it again.

The tearing down of many old buildings in his area upsets J. I understand why, although I point out to him that people are free to do what they like with their property, and nostalgic is not equivalent to historic. Unless a Civil War sniper used the run’s tower as a base to influence a battle outcome, or Abraham Lincoln slept there, it’s just a toboggan run. Even the town in which Swallow Cliff Woods is located can’t save it. I’m sure much of what I loved best about Western New York of the 1960s is gone. I take some comfort in knowing that nothing but time, age, or disease can rob me of my memories.

During the drive, I was reminded of why the south suburbs have grown on me — they are not yet overdeveloped. That this will happen is inevitable, and the signs are there, like a bulldozed field and a developer’s sign across the road from a farmhouse and barn. On the other hand, the Forest Preserve District of Cook County Web site claims that it owns 67,800 acres, or 11 percent of the land in Cook County. Much of that space, like Swallow Cliff Woods, are in the south and southwest suburbs.

It had rained earlier, the sky was overcast, and there was very little spring green in evidence, but for me it’s lovely to be in the woods at any season.

Of course, to get to the woods you must climb the stairs up the hill to the top of the toboggan run. My left knee hated it, my lower back agreed with my knee, and my cardiovascular system let me know that it hadn’t been prepared properly. I took several breathers even as older people passed me. J. beat me to the top and documented my labors in photographs. He wondered about the haul down later; I told him that the descent would be easy.

At the top we spoke to a couple who are about our age. The man recalled using the run as a child in the 1960s, and the quickness and terror of the initial drop. Still panting, I thought about how thousands of children must have climbed the steps effortlessly, over and over.

The man said the reason given for the destruction is cost, although he seemed skeptical. His wife, more practical, pointed out that the Forest Preserve District probably pays expensive insurance premiums. This observation didn’t mollify the men, but they didn’t dispute it. We also discussed the unpredictability of employment, as snow is very irregular in this area.

As we talked, a number of people walked up the steps; a few made repeat trips. We had noticed piles of pebbles and rocks on the stone ledges; the man explained that regulars use the stairs for exercise and track the cumulative number of trips with these rocks. He said that he and his wife are among these regulars, sometimes making five round trips, sometimes three. Often they bring their dog, who is “more interested in the woods than in the stairs. Can’t imagine why.” Later, as we were descending, we observed a determined man with nearly white hair make two round trips without showing any signs of tiring or quitting.

We had some time before sunset, so we walked one-quarter to one-half mile down a wide trail in the woods — wide enough for the horses whose droppings we stepped around. At one point, I heard a dense chorus of chirps that didn’t sound quite like birds or insects; it may have come from frogs, although I don’t know. Alas, I’ve never had much opportunity to develop my woodcraft skills.

During the return, the woods seemed quieter except for the regular roar of jets on their final descent into Midway Airport. In the relative silence, we heard the very loud drilling of a somewhat distant woodpecker. It’s a sound that never fails to thrill me.

J. spotted a tree next to the trail that had two thin trunks of a different bark growing around it. These trunks, which seemed to have clumps of “hair,” looked parasitic to my uneducated eye. I had a strangely emotional reaction to them, a primitive one of horror, as though I were seeing more than a woody plant (or parasite) embracing (or strangling) a tree. I shuddered inwardly while J. took photos for reference in case I wanted to figure out what it is.

In the car while we were debating where to eat, I spotted a sign about a “Lake Katherine Nature Center and Botanic Gardens.” J. backtracked a bit. We walked around this area in the dusk light, observing mallards and a lone swan, probably a trumpeter.

From the neatness of its shores, I judged Lake Katherine to be manmade. The lake, fed by miniature waterfalls, and the surrounding nature preserve consists of 125 acres that began with open space reclaimed by Palos Heights in 1985.

Near the waterfalls, J. noted a sign warning against going onto the little island midstream, which is inhabited by northern watersnakes. While these snakes are not venomous, according to the sign their bite can cause significant bleeding. As if that were not enough to deter the more macho and determined adventurers, the sign writer added that disturbed watersnakes will poop and vomit. J. knew that the triple threat of blood loss and snake poop and vomit was not enough to stop me, but the growing darkness and the unsure footing on small, slippery rocks in the water were. I leaned forward for a while and peered into the misty dimness, willing northern watersnakes to appear. They didn’t.

A peaceful place, Lake Katherine and its grounds are marred only by the electric towers that loom against the southern sky. In the fading light, with mist rising thickly from the water’s surface, I could try to imagine the towers and all that they represent away.

We undid any benefits conferred by the exercise by eating at an Italian family restaurant, beginning with onion rings (my strange craving) and a combination plate of mushrooms and mozzarella and zucchini sticks, a Blue Moon Belgian White and fetuccine alfredo for me, and a soft drink and tortellini for J.

Stuffed (and carrying lots of leftovers), we came here, drank coffee infused with blueberries, and pretended not to ache.